The Pleasure of Your Company
by bcbdrums
Summary: "Anything wrong Holmes?" I asked, raising myself to lean on my elbow. The question was a mistake however, for he turned his back to me completely then and began to play a dark melody on his violin. Oneshot. Another birthday gift for KaizokuShojo :D


This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Pleasure of Your Company

© 2009 by the author (anonymous by request) in association with Daylor and Sheldon Publishing™

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

The author does not in any way profit from this work. All creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator.

For more information: submit a review or contact the author via private message.

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_A/N: ...and now, for something completely different...! *is shot* XD I give you, another birthday gift fic for my dear freind Kai :D Because, who says I'm limited to one? (and I really didn't like the quality of the one I wrote yesterday :P It was totally not me...) So...enjoy Kai! (and, everyone XD )_

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The Pleasure of Your Company

I was so tired…

My feet ached with every slow step down the sidewalk, and I almost called a cab to take me the rest of the way to Baker Street. But I knew the relief on my feet would be temporary, and I would be exchanging it for an increase in the pain in my back.

I reached my free arm back to the sore spot between my spine and my shoulder blade, and dug my thumb into it. I wasn't quite sure what caused the pain, but it was likely related to the Jezail bullet I took in my shoulder in Afghanistan so many years ago.

I shifted my medical bag to my other hand, and saw the familiar house in the dim lamplight. I forced my feet faster toward it, the call of rest and relief driving me against the pain that seemed to never cease.

My ears registered the sound of Holmes's violin playing as I pushed my way through the door. I rapidly shrugged off my coat, hat and gloves, not bothering to properly hang them. My body had one focus now, and that was to collapse upon my bed, and let sleep take me.

I fairly ran upstairs, and I heard Holmes pause in his violin playing as I did so. I slowed my pace as much as my body would allow, and entered the brightly lit sitting room. The light suddenly made me aware of how much my head hurt, and I tried not to make it too obvious as I winced in pain.

"Good evening, Watson," Holmes said, turning toward me and looking over me in his searching, methodical fashion.

"Evening, Holmes," I said tiredly, barely giving him a second glance as I made for my room. But feeling the warmth of the fire as I took off my jacket caused me to change direction. I dropped my jacket on the back of the sofa as I collapsed upon it, not even shifting around to find a comfortable position.

The only sound was from the fire, as the flames slid over the logs with their destructive power. I remembered I wasn't alone, and opened my eyes. Holmes was still studying me.

"…All right, Watson?" he asked. He had my attention then, for a show of anything approaching a feeling was totally uncharacteristic of him.

"I'm okay," I finally sighed. I imagine I wasn't very convincing. "How are you?" I returned the question, and he turned away from me, what little of his mask had dropped firmly back into place.

He raised the violin back to his chin, the firelight reflecting dimly against the instrument. He lifted the bow to play, but paused before setting it against the strings.

"I've had better days," he said, half-glancing at me.

"Oh? Anything wrong?" I asked, raising myself to lean on my elbow. The question was a mistake however, for he turned his back to me completely then and began to play.

I fell back into the sofa and closed my eyes, listening to the improvised music. It began slowly, the tones long, soft and static. Then the tiniest hint of vibrato crept onto the edges of the notes, and I opened my eyes again to watch him play. He was moving with the music, the sway of his body amplifying the somber mood that the melody was creating.

The dynamic rose, as did the speed with which the notes came. The violin sounded as if it were pleading, crying for an answer to all of life's troubles. He played louder, and with a slow tremolo that reminded me of a sobbing voice, lost and alone. I couldn't help but wonder if the impressions the music was giving me were how he was feeling at that moment.

He started to play faster and faster, his fingers flying up the neck of the violin as he arpeggiated chords higher and higher, finally reaching that note that makes one's head want to explode unless it is resolved. He drew the bow out far, slowly and softly, heightening the tension in the air. And then he dropped to the tritone with a ferocity that made me cringe, before finally coming to rest on the bottom of the key.

My mind was trying to make sense of the strange composition, when I realized he was looking at me, from where he had seated himself in his chair, the violin sitting lazily across his lap. I kept my eyes on it even as he began to speak, concerned it would fall.

"Lestrade gave me quite the run-around today," he said.

"…Oh?" I answered cautiously.

"Mm. He had a case which, by its initial description sounded promising, but once I went out to the scene the solution was as clear as crystal."

"Ah…" I responded, not sure what, if anything, I should say.

"What's more is, I believe he did it deliberately."

"What?"

"I suspect that in this instance, he called me out so he would not have to use the meager brains he has been endowed with. He seemed utterly pleased when I gave him the solution, and acted as if the entire case had been as routine as a training case for students at the academy."

"Interesting…" I finally said, still not knowing what to say.

"Even when the criminal fired upon us—"

"What?!"

"Oh. It was a murder case. We went to arrest the suspect immediately after I gave Lestrade proof that it _was_ he who had committed the foul act, and he put up a grand fight." It was now my eyes doing the searching, as I looked at my friend for any sign of injury. I noticed as he was yawning, that the knuckles on his right hand were raw.

"I wish you had called me."

"I did not want to disturb you at work. The case was a bore anyway…" he said distractedly. I felt utterly miserable that he had been in danger and I had not been there to aid him.

"The one bright point of the day was when we brought the criminals to the Yard, and I had a moment to chat with Inspector Hopkins. It seems he is making professional strides with the application of my methods. He expects a promotion in the future, if his success continues."

I fought down the intense feeling of jealousy that had instantly welled up in me at his mention of talking with Hopkins. "That sounds like a…rather trying day."

"It was," he sighed, and slumped in his chair, "I can feel my mind atrophying under the strain of stagnation," he concluded, and began to idly drag the bow across the strings of the violin, barely bothering to press his fingers to the strings to achieve any notes.

I did not know what to say. It didn't sound as dreadful as he made it seem, but he truly believed the words he was saying, and I could see in his eyes that his depression was real. I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it again. I wanted to try to help, but not fully understanding his predicament, I did not know what to say that would do so. And I certainly did not want to risk making the situation worse with words of encouragement. Those only seemed to make the situation worse, as I had observed in the past.

I lay my head back against the sofa cushion (and my aching neck was grateful for the relief), and I pondered all he had said. I was frustrated to no end, not having a clue what to do, and I was worried.

Holmes must have noticed my silence, for the noise from the violin stopped (thank God) and I heard him lean forward slightly.

"…How was your day?" he finally asked. I glanced at him, and could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

"I'm just tired from work," I replied, not really answering his question, but saying what I wanted to. "It would seem that every ill person in London wishes to have me as their doctor, but do not want to pay me for my services," I said with some bitterness, "I am not invincible, nor is my pocketbook overflowing. I wish people would have a measure of consideration…" I stopped, not wanting my emotions to get the better of me.

But apparently I had communicated well, for Holmes frowned in response, and I thought I could see a touch of sadness in his eyes. I leaned back again and rubbed my neck. I was honestly surprised by the words Holmes spoke next.

"I wish I could help…" he said, and I looked up at him, to see him rubbing his forehead, and pinching his eyes in obvious pain.

"Me too," I said, after a moment of observing him. I had not been expecting any kind of emotional response from him, but at the moment he seemed to be in too much pain to care one way or the other what he said. "You have a headache?" I asked worriedly.

He nodded.

"I left my bag downstairs…but you can take a pain reliever if you wish."

"No, thank you. I despise putting artificial substances into my body."

I glanced furtively at the cocaine bottle on the mantelpiece, but said nothing.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, each wanting to speak but not knowing what to say. Holmes rose, and began to pace before the fire, leaving the violin in his chair. I watched him for a moment, the familiar frustration of ennui clear in his features.

I rose to put the violin away. More than once he had nearly sat on it in his distraction, and that was an event I sorely wanted to avoid. I could see him watching me from the corner of his eye, making sure I loosened the bow properly before putting it away, and checking the level of moisture in the sponge he used as a humidifier.

I closed the instrument case and fell back onto the sofa with a grimace. I could not continue working with this level of stress. The physical pain alone was difficult to manage, but I was fairly certain I had begun to lose weight as well.

I watched my friend pacing, his eyes darting around the room, looking for anything to distract his mind. I could see him considering things, and then deciding against them as either a bore, or not worthy of attention without inspiration. I had to do something.

"Holmes?"

"Mm?" he said, staring with mild interest at his chemical table.

"What…mm, what was that piece you were playing before?"

"Nothing; I improvised it," he said, without looking at me, and continued his pacing.

I thought for a moment. "What was it about Lestrade's case this afternoon that had initially seemed interesting?"

"Just the manner in which the murder had been done," he replied boredly.

"How had it been done?"

Holmes looked a tad annoyed. "The woman had been found dead within a locked room, without a mark upon her. But any fool could smell the foul gas her husband had released through the ventilation duct to kill her."

"Ah…"

I stared into the fire, giving up on getting his mind working. The last thing I wanted to talk about was Stanley Hopkins, but I had no other ideas for conversation. I allowed myself to sink into depression, worrying about my friend's state of mind, and sorrowful that even as his friend, I was powerless to help him. I felt a strong measure of despair with the thought that we were both suffering our respective grievances and could do nothing to aid the other.

After several minutes of brooding, my mind came back to the present when I noticed his pacing had stopped. I blinked through tired eyes and looked to him, where he had re-seated himself in his chair. His eyes were upon me, but they were unfocused. I was surprised to find them filled with as much worry as mine must have been.

"If you were a criminal Watson, what poison would you use to eliminate someone?"

I was taken aback by the random question, but I gave it honest consideration.

"I would probably use chlorine. It's readily available, and does the job well." He quirked a smile at my straight-faced answer. "But if I wanted to be creative I would use phosgene. Though, I suppose that would not be the brightest move, were I a criminal…"

"Why not? What is phosgene?"

"It's another lethal chemical. It was only synthesized a couple of decades ago, I believe."

"Ah…yes, I believe I have heard something of it…"

"It is little-known, which is why it would not be wise for a criminal to use it. There is limited access to it, and a man could be easily traced if he used it."

"Hmm…" I could see the wheels in Holmes's brain beginning to spin. I wondered what my small piece of information had started.

"What did the criminal you captured today use?"

"Chlorine. The stench was so heavy, I am _positive_ Lestrade had an ulterior motive for calling me out. He cannot be that stupid…"

"Perhaps he is," I shrugged, leaning up on my elbows again.

"Ha!" Holmes laughed, "And even if he had an ulterior motive, it wouldn't matter. I received all credit for this case, and he received a bullet wound to the leg."

I started in alarm. "Is he all right?"

"Quite. The bullet barely grazed him, but the fuss he made about it would have made one think otherwise," he chuckled.

"I suppose he was not happy about your receiving the credit for the case," I mused.

"Indeed. I believe he expected a pay raise or some such nonsense from his quick solving of the case."

"One would hope he would be in the business for the work itself, and not the money."

A bit of fire came to Holmes eyes then. "The art of detection is becoming lost in this world, Watson. We must endeavor to see that it is not, and that evil does not reign in our fair city."

"With your example Holmes, I believe justice will triumph. And not just now, but in future generations."

He blushed lightly. "We shall see. Have I ever told you of the case of the lost parasol?" he changed the subject.

"No," I laughed, "But it sounds either boring or hilarious."

"Actually, it was quite deadly. It began in the spring of '76, when by chance I encountered a young child in the park who had lost her parasol…"

We talked long into the night, and the next morning, Mrs. Hudson found her lodgers fast asleep before a cold fire, but with smiles on their faces. For the greatest cure to any form of suffering, is time spent with a cherished friend.

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_Author's notes: There we go...that's much better XD *feels satisfied* And this one took half the time to write too... *thinks that's because it is half as long* XD_

_Well...do I really need to say again that this was written without planning or editing? That's how all of my fics are written... Oh, is it in-character? I worry about that..._

_Anyway...I hope everyone enjoyed. I certainly did. And again, happy birthday Kai~! ^^_


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